It took me over an hour to realize that the smell was coming from my car.

The first time I caught a whiff of what I assumed was the runoff from a slaughterhouse, I was parked outside Community Health. Naturally, I assumed the rotting-flesh-scent was emanating from the clinic’s parking lot. (Only insured people get to park in the meat-free spaces.) But then I took a quick trip to the store. And the same odor followed me. Worse, it was still there when I got to my office.

Being a child of the Sopranos, I knew right away what had happened. I’d been framed for a murder! I raised the lid of my trunk in terror. The Mafia–in northeastern Wyoming–had certainly slipped a dead body there. A very lightweight one, mind you, since I couldn’t feel any difference in the way the car handled. But there was nothing in my trunk…Except for the cardboard boxes I always mean to recycle. And the blanket I carry because I’m supposed to carry emergency supplies in Wyoming in the winter. As the blanket wasn’t bloodsoaked, I decided I was in the clear.

But the air emanating from the front of my car certainly wasn’t.

My husband, ever loyal, wanted to know what I hit. Because it must be something I did. Karma or otherwise, I’d earned the dead flesh freshener. Well, if I did hit an animal, I didn’t see it. Or feel it. Or skid across the highway on its slippery little bloody body. “Maybe a mouse,” he says. Right. A mouse that flips up and lodges itself into my manifold? A little bunny that doesn’t have the common sense to get smushed flat and instead goes spinning up into the inner workings of my Toyota?

I decided it’s a little woodland creature that crawled up inside the engine to take a nap. Cats do that. But my husband couldn’t find anything (and I wasn’t going to look) so this morning I brought the car to my favorite car place in the world, Jack’s Autobody. They looked for over an hour and couldn’t find anything. No results, no charge. That’s why they’re my favorite car place in the world.

I still don’t know the source of the dead animal smell. Or why it mysteriously disappered. But I sure hope that the little guy who crawled up in there is in cat heaven.

File this under the who-asked-for-it category: Lilith Fair is back. You read that right. Eleven years after Sarah McLachlan folded her tent, she’s reopening it with another femme lesbian circus playing for peanuts.

Yes, of course the Indigo Girls will be performing.

I am secure enough in my ovaries to skip the whole tour, thank you very much. Although I am (a) a woman (b) something of a feminist, I also have (c) taste. Nothing against the fine female singers on the docket: Mary J. Blige and Emmylou Harris, you’re good people. But Sheryl Crow? What have you done for me lately besides adopt a baby you couldn’t have with Lance Armstrong?

Granted, I am not the audience for most music festivals. Ozzfest is clearly not my thing (though I went to one on a first date. That should’ve been a good indicator that the second wouldn’t work out too well). And even the ole, beloved Lollapalooza was a bit windy for my taste. Realistically, I’ve got about a 2 hour concert-going limit. After that, my bladder or my back sing louder than whoever’s on stage.

But of all the festivals to bring back…Lilith Fair? She’s not even on Cheers anymore! If I wanted to watch outdated femme-centric performers, I would rent old Family Ties episodes on DVD. Or Top Gun, with lovely crossover Kelly McGillis. The mere thought of suffering through an entire day of such “diverse” female artists (since when is a group composed of a single gender diverse?) makes me wish instead for whatever torture the White House is currently dreaming up for a certain Nigerian who just tried to blow up a certain flight to Detroit.

Seriously, folks. I would do almost anything to avoid the Indigo Girls.

Yes, I voted for Barack Obama. Joyfully. I cried at his acceptance speech. And yes, I enjoy listening to his sound-bytes on the radio, which tend to come out in full sentences, in appropriate verb forms and tenses. Yes, he looks damn good in a suit. But worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize?

Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Poor Jimmy Carter, who had to serve a full term, then actually do something after his presidency, in order to win the award. Poor everyone else who was nominated, too–people who had to do more than get themselves elected against a ticket that included Sarah Palin. Not the hardest task on planet earth, people.

Sending Bill instead of Hillary to North Korea was a smart move. Our president has made a lot of smart (slick) moves. So far, though, the only real example of genuine diplomacy I’ve seen Mr. Obama display is calming down Henry Gates with a beer. I hate to think that Alfred Nobel’s selecting committee considers the president’s potential–as conveyed by a marketing campaign–worthy of their award. But that’s exactly what they seem to be saying.

Now our pathetic, persuasive American ad campaigns are even effective at nabbing a Nobel? It’s a sad, sad world we live in, when nouveau celebrities like Mr. Obama start sweeping the Nobel prizes like a glorified popularity contest.

At least the literature award is still safe. I feel comfortable knowing that I have never heard of the recipient, and will never read her work. That means there are larger things out there in the world than lil ole me and my populist (call it trashy) taste.

Please–reserve me a copy of that Levi Johnston Playgirl. And hand me a chalice full of hemlock if Dan Brown ever gets the Oslo treatment.

Well, it looks like Wilbur has had his revenge! If you buy into the fear machine, “the other white meat” is poised to eradicate humanity from the globe.

Personally, I find it strange that the State Department has been trying to keep Americans above the border, issuing travel restrictions, instilling fears about the drug trade and now–suddenly– there’s a major health threat coming from Mexico.

Hmm.

Conspiracies can be quite fun when theyevolve to the level of pandemic! At least this one isn’t killing people at the rate of the CIA’s AIDS. Swine flu is fairly minor, all things considered. But to make up for its lack of actual toxicity, we have plenty of soundbites warning of the disease’s dire return this fall–ie, the time most Americans would want to go back down to Mexico–once the summer heatwave burns off.

As you can see, rural Wyoming isn’t terribly concerned about the source of the sickness. The man and I visited the Johnson County fairgrounds yesterday and discovered their exhibit hall–hilariously behind the times.

The sad truth is we’re all human.  Flawed to the core. 

Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.

I have to admit: one of my lesser flaws is a slavish devotion to trashy magazines.  In particular, I love celebrity mags, which make a fortune photographing the same, seemingly flawless women (with the occasional shirtless man thrown in for good measure) week after week, in one fabulous designer creation after another. These mags even poke fun at the females that have the gall to carry the same handbag twice.  Because everyone knows that a $2K purse is a toss-off.

I don’t really understand why an up-and-coming actress needs to be a fashion diva, too, but it seems like that’s all food for the machine. It’s not a new phenomeonon, either: Celeb snapshots were what separated Audrey Hepburn from Anne Bancroft. Clothes may not make the woman, but they can certainly keep an audience hungry for more pictures of her wearing Chanel.

The best (read: craziest) trend, though, is designer footwear.  Spending a grand on a pair of heels is insane.  Especially if you want to walk in them.  But who needs to do something so pedestrian as walk when you have a driver? 

I’m exactly the target market.  I see those telltale red soles on a woman’s shoes and right away I assume that the woman wearing them is a goddess.  By association, she must also have perfect skin, a perfect figure, a perfect life. 

We mortals have to make do with practical footwear.  We can’t cram our clay feet into Louboutins.  But when we can, as aspiration has it, we won’t be mortal anymore. 

Someone will take pictures of us in our perfect French footwear.  They’ll airbrush us into eternity. 

Christian Louboutin isn’t the only one selling immortality.  But he might be the only one selling it for $900 a pair.

Last night I was driving home after a pleasantly sweaty time at the gym, and realized to my delight that I was too exhausted to get antsy about what was playing on my iPod. On my morning commute, I can skip over a dozen or more songs until I get to the only one that sounds “right.”  (And then play it over and over and over until I get to the office. My freshman roommate used to do the same thing with Yaz. Imagine being 18, away from home for the first time since theatre camp, and being stuck with ”Don’t go” on eternal repeat. Unsurprisingly, she’s my only college roommate not linked to my Facebook page).

Last night, though, my critical brain was engrossed with the chore of scanning the road for suicidal/passenger-car crushing deer. Thus occupied, everything that came through the tinny speakers seemed to be worth singing along to at the top of my lungs. Which I did: joyfully, horribly, without reservation or an iota of apology.

Now we know why those deer are suicidal.

Admittedly, my iPod taste is pretty cheesy. I’ve been known to throw down the suburban white girl’s idea of a gang sign while trying to rap along to “Mama Said Knock You Out.” But damn, my Madonna karaoke’s not half-bad! I can even keep up with the mostly-German version of “Rock Me Amadeus.” But you will never witness me mouthing the words to Falco while cruising along local streets.

Some tunes just demand s-p-e-e-d.

At 75 MPH White Zombie sounds pretty dang good. Driving at 30 past the crowded supermarkets, however, I would deny the Devil’s Rejects director three times before the cock crowed thrice. NPR, baby! That’s all you’ll hear coming from my slow-moving vehicle. Until I accelerate onto the highway ramp. And turn up “More Human than Human.” And play air-drum on my steering wheel while bellowing like a harpy in heat.

In the winter, with my car windows closed, I’m more likely to give in to temptation. “Play us some MC Hammer!” my snow-damaged brain insists. (This is likely the same cruel voice that demands baked goods all the time, then beats me up for having a waist bigger than 24 inches). So if you were to peer inside my ice-crusted side windows, you might just catch me reminding all a’yall that “I’m dope on the floor and I’m magic on the mic.”  

More likely, though, you’ll only hear Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson (no relation) deconstructing the latest debacle in Kabul. See, I’m pretty good at covering my cheesy taste with a facade of intellectualism. As, I suspect, most liberals secretly are. Of all the millions of People magazine subscribers, there have to be a few crossovers with McSweeneys.

Break it down…

U, Dave Eggers, can’t touch this.

Ya gotta love a paid day off from work when it isn’t snowing. In Wyoming, that gives us one or two national holidays to play with. Fourth of July and maybe Labor Day. As I recall Memorial Day, it was very, very cold and crunchy white underfoot. Nobody spent time outdoors grilling tube steaks in a foot of snow.

Tomorrow ought to be sunny and warm. Even with no plans but to BBQ, it’ll be a blast. And I mean that literally. People shoot off all kinds of fireworks up in the mountains. The City of Sheridan prohibits “the storage, use or handling of fireworks.” Outside the city limits, however, you’re free to blow your damn fingers off every day of the week.

That’s how you can tell us mountain folk, in fact: we’re the ones who look like we’re ex-bomb squad.

It’s still weird to me to spend Independence Day somewhere other than a beach. I’ve been away from Long Island for half my life, yet I still expect to spend the holiday frying my pale skin to a pretty, blister pink and the evening watching a Grucci fireworks show simulcast on WBLI.

Since there’s no getting around the landlocked-and-how aspect of Wyoming living, I decided to alleviate the Grucci longing this year by watching my veterinarian launch a few Roman candles in his own backyard. Even better, I might get to watch him sew a few finger nubs back on.

That’s how we get down in the Big Horns. We do for ourselves.

And isn’t that the meaning of independence?

Rationally, I understand that spammers employ tantalizing subject lines to get people to click on their e-mails. No, I don’t think my in-box is really full of Angelina Jolie nude shots, tragic scenes of new earthquakes in China, or Rolex watches at 80% off. But for some reason, when these creeps tell me “You look stupid, cnelson,” I want to run to the gym and do a thousand crunches.

I would say that these subject lines are targeted to insecure females, but they seem to follow right after Viagra offers, so that can’t be accurate. The truth, I suppose is even worse: insults make for effective advertising.

Telling me I look stupid isn’t actually such a far cry from the ad tactic made popular by women’s magazines, which tell me I could look better, much better, if I buy more stuff. It’s a subtle difference. Not “you’re ugly,” but “you could be beautiful.” Cosmo doesn’t tell me I’m bad in bed, it merely offers suggestions for being a better slut.

My spam, however, tells me not only that I suck, but that I suck on the outside (inner suckitude can be covered up by makeup and hair products and by mastering the art of making your man feel like a porn star). It’s not very easy to insult my intelligence, but my appearance is a trickier area. Hello, neurosis! I want to lash back; click the damn link. Tell that spam who’s on top! Which is exactly the response they’re trying for.

It’s nasty psychological warfare, man. Every in-box for itself! Maybe I should form a support group for emotionally-thin-membraned folks such as myself who prefer their computers to say “I love you. You’re hot. You’re brilliant. And you don’t need to spend a dime on your beauty regime. Just upgrade to Windows XXXP for a 10% tithe of your salary.”

I’m in! Just show me where to click.

When Rush comes on the radio I feel very much like I imagine the American public felt when they first heard “talkies.” Geddy Lee grates on my nerves so badly I have to switch the station immediately, or else risk driving headlong into oncoming traffic. I feel exactly the same way about A Prairie Home Companion. I would gladly subject myself to a month of fingernails on the chalkboard or even a pro-life sermon if I could be spared hearing the man from Minnesota ruin another poem for all eternity. Message to the fine folks at Gitmo: scrap the waterboards and put 2112 on repeat. Follow it up with mid-afternoon NPR for a quick confession. It’s failproof.

I know, Geddy Lee’s lyrics are brilliant, and Keillor’s a genius. I just don’t hear it. As far as I’m concerned, Rush has no lyrics. They just have a whiny Canuck saying something or another in a tone of voice that makes me wish I had a life insurance policy so I could drive off a bridge and be spared the pain, yet still pay off my mortgage.

As far as Keillor is concerned, I’ve been known to run across the room to wrestle my boyfriend away from the radio. That stupid detective bit makes me want to resurrect Raymond Chandler, stick a bottle in his hand and a pen in the other and show that baritone so-and-so how a real noir writer gets busy.

They’re both awful.

But which is worse?

Tomorrow: The loser takes on Rosie Perez!

First off, a disclaimer: I’ve only been to three yoga classes, and two of them were at Jivamukti, which merits a whole entry to itself. (Any facility with an elevator from the eleventh century that takes 20 minutes to go three floors should probably tone down the attitude, for starters.) My third yoga experience was at New York Sports, wherein roughly two dozen people were doing headstands at seven am. I consider myself in fine stead if I can stand upright at that hour. 

Personally, I think there’s a conspiracy between yoga teachers and the manufacturers of cotton capri pants, which just weren’t such high-ticket items way back in, oh, say, the good old pre-yoga days.  Somehow, by hiring skinny women with kick-ass shoulders to sit in front of the room, they’ve managed to sell overpriced workout tights and twenty-buck pieces of purple rubber, along with mind-numbing “clarity” and some false promise of inner peace. The People’s Temple offered similar results, with the added benefit of sugary beverages and a tax-free, tropical location.

The poor marketing of eastern philosophy isn’t even what gets me, though. It’s my paranoia that those mirrors in front of the room are really one-way, and the entire staff of the gym is behind them, along with the Republic of China (manufacturers of said capri pants), laughing their sculpted butts off at millions of misled Americans, desperate to twist ourselves into poses that just aren’t natural, no matter what kind of tree-hugging names you give them. One day we will be on Yoga Tube. Or you will. I bought my footage back from the Chinese, for a few bucks and a plug for the Beijing Olympics.

Myanmar, schmyanmar. Ra, Ra, Ra!